The End of the Line
by Starzangel
Summary: Finally, everything has become too much for Tom Quinn.


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THE END OF THE LINE

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Starzangel

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Disclaimer: _Spooks/MI-5_ isn't mine and I'm making no money from this story, which _is _mine.

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Archive: If you're not FanFiction.Net, then please ask first (via a review) and I'll get back to you (and most probably say "Yes!").

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Author's Note: This is set after Season 2, but ignores the last episode (if that makes any sense!).

[Spooks]:

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The End of the Line

The pain. So much pain. His soul couldn't take any more. The slash in his upper arm was nothing, its pain a mere itch compared to the deep pain in his mind, in his soul. A stream of blood twined around his arm, slid over his limp wrist and dripped to the floor. The crimson droplets fell rapidly, in time with his heart. Soft pats against the floorboards, like the sound of tiny feet belonging to a miniature child. A child. They'd killed a child.

He barely felt the warm wetness of the life-fluid as it flowed from the knife wound, barely noticed the growing red pool on the threadbare mat. It didn't matter, he was already dead.

They'd slit her throat right there in front of him, beside that wooden chair. "You're too close," Harry had cautioned, right from the start. But she'd been a child for pity's sake! How could you not be drawn to those innocent green eyes, the shy smile on those doll-like lips?

Above the angry red gash around that small neck, her eyes had met his, wide and filled with shock and fear. He'd told her he would protect her, he'd promised.

Three of them had held him tight, so he couldn't go to her. The frightened young eyes had held his, pleading for him to help, as her little chest heaved with dying breaths. Then those bright eyes had slid back, her head lolling to one side, the thick brown curls falling with it.

They'd released him then. He had fallen to the floor beside her, pulling her small body into his arms. His trembling hand had stroked her soft long hair, matted with blood, and he'd showered her head with tender kisses. Cradling her against his chest, he'd rocked her and whispered sweet promises. But it was too late. She was already dead.

Her cheeks were cold, white. Her pretty eyes stared, dully. The small fingers did not grasp his; the tiny hand slid from his palm.

Alicia had been her name. She'd been wronged by the cold unfeeling world, wronged by him. Unlike the world, he couldn't remain aloof. It was what was demanded of him, but he couldn't do it. More names ran through his tortured mind. Names of other innocents who he had put in the line of fire or not pulled away from it. Some he'd failed to save, others he'd asked to die, to sacrifice themselves for 'National Security'. Yet, who was he to play God, to chose who lived and who died?

An instrument of the Devil, a teller of lies and giver of false promises, that was he. "Trust me," he'd told her, "I won't let them hurt you any more." He'd used her, a helpless child. A young girl who had suffered so much already, and he had given hope. He'd held a torch for her to see in the dark, but as her eyes drank in the light, they'd failed to see the dangers that lurked in the shadows behind her. He'd seen, but he had let her stand there, estimating their distance. But he'd guessed wrong; gambled with her young life and lost. A brief candle of life had been winked out. A child. He'd killed a child.

All was numb, except the torrents of suffering that racked his conscience. His heart was torn to tatters. It was too much. He couldn't cope any longer, the pain was too great.

Distantly he heard voices calling his name. "Tom! Tom!" His real name. He hadn't told little Alicia his real name. Another lie. Somewhere in the building a door was broken down and boots thudded on the bare boards. His saviours were here, but they were too late. He was already damned.

His head was light, the pain being pulled away. Before his eyes, the girl rose to her feet. Her bright eyes met his and her pink mouth spread into a loving smile. She ran across the room to where he stood staring at her, his shirt soaked with more of her blood than his own. Her thin arms wrapped around his waist and she leant her head against him. He reached down to press her closer still, tears draining from his eyes. Though, given eternity, he would never be able to shed enough for the pain he felt.

He could hear nothing but the soft murmurs of the child, telling him she loved him. The room span wildly, all he could see clearly was the top of her head against his stomach. Then that was fading too, disappearing into bright light, as the legs he could no longer feel buckled. Limply, he fell to floor.

His head rested against the blooded mat, making no effort to move. His blue, pain-filled eyes slowly closed.


End file.
